


the bliss of a sleeping world

by bot18



Category: The Song of Achilles - Madeline Miller
Genre: Achilles is sad boi, Fluff, M/M, Patroclus comforts him because hes soFt BOi uwu, Reincarnation, also its like 3 am and Pat cant think for shit, angst if you squint
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-28
Updated: 2018-11-28
Packaged: 2019-09-01 18:02:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,410
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16770133
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bot18/pseuds/bot18
Summary: After their reincarnation, they've been a normal couple and everything like that, just needing the adventure of being normal (and in love). Although, at 3 AM, Achilles vents some unspoken feelings and Pat helps.





	the bliss of a sleeping world

All cognitive thought has been thrown out the window for the blissful countdown from 2 AM to 3 AM spent with Achilles. I’m conflicted, sure, but I’m not 110% positive I care enough to mind. Or have enough energy to, for that matter.

As if he was a baby, I waste about a minute or so warming up a glass of milk just to mock him. A minute wasted, but time has already been whisked out of my grasp. Time is a simple thought in the simple realm of early mornings, (late nights?) nothing more than a concept that can suck my ass. I hop from side to side, the chilling floor tickling the soles of my feet.

Entering his—our—room with a weird smile, I slide the glass onto the desk, careful to not spill for the price of a split-second joke. “Here ya’ go, you big baby.”

“Mm,” Achilles murmurs, apparently tired despite being barely able to stand up after laughing too hard from nothing, really, minutes ago. Again: time is non-existent and should furthermore fuck off. 

“Baby tired?” I coo, not ready to leave a warm glass of milk unattended because of this fucker. My precious time to create a joke will not be excused by an ungrateful “mm.” 

I’m greeted with silence. Well that’s great. I audibly groan, not caring for the obvious echoes it produces, and chug the milk. I hold out the milk to see how much I drank and watch the remnants of milk slide down and down and down. Miniature bubbles on the carved lines swivel and pop. I place the glass back down, entranced in the silence yet again. I'll care for it once the big baby has been cared for.

Achilles has always been the one to sleep wherever and whenever; a skill more useful than it sounds. Then again, it’s more annoying than useful too. It’s—it’s—argh! I can’t think. Curse you, brain. I refocus onto the sheets enveloping Achilles.

And then-I’m greeted with the feeling. The inescapable one. Once heart-wrenching and now heart-filling—bursting, even. The sappy, undeniable need to pull and tug and caress and feel. Feelings pushed aside in the busy day, forgotten in sleep. But once the clock switches from 2:59 to 3:00, it resurfaces like an old friend. In my hands, seducing and all mine, but within minutes into sleep, turns back into the gentle mornings of dreaded everything. The feelings after jokes disperse and his eyes is all I can feel and see. Yes, that one.

I pull the blankets outward and the soft vwumph takes over for 4 seconds and then rests on me. 

Achilles twists over to face me, awake. A blessing to see the mighty Aristos Achaion like this. Blonde locks which have been tugged and twisted in a variety of emotions lie inches away from me, golden but barely anything more than charcoal in the night. The soft curve of his lips which have been turnt down ferociously, quirked in curiosity, and smiling with delight, are now resting, slightly parted.

His eyes which are undeniably, so undeniably, green, are no longer dripped and glazed with sleepiness. The thick of his eyebrows are rested with a gentle slump.

It seems his eyes have darted to mine. Is he thinking the same thing? Does it matter? I’m answered with an emotional smile. A quivering smile made from Aristos Achaion given to me, just me. 

Achilles wraps his arms around my waist, his fingers brushing sensually on my hips, and I’m met with him. Beautiful him.

I’m not a man of words. Achilles has brought more words out of me, but my nature has not been reversed. I don’t know what I’m feeling, but I assume it pools in my own eyes for Achilles buries his face in the soft crook of my neck, his lips exposed to the skin but not sexual whatsoever.

“Did I ever tell you how sorry I am?”

Ah, yes. After being reincarnated and meeting once again, all I’ve known of him since was apologies. And at first I was hungry for them. Yes, he should be sorry for the pride that took over him, for the coldness towards Briseis’ own being. Mine, even. But after a while, it hurt to look into Achilles eyes and find sorrow in place of love. I thought the sorrow was demolished after literal days of practice for Achilles to not feel them, but in the dead of 3 AM anything can bubble up.

“You have, and I've forgiven you. Good night.” I turn, feigning the closure of our conversation, but he twists me around a bit too fiercely with his now soft hands, nothing like the calloused palms that dressed me before battle.

“No, I..” the little brush of his eyelashes closing grace my skin. “It's just..sometimes I know. Sorry, to make it more exact, I know you could do better. I can't believe the only way to learn the power of my pride was through your death. It makes me scared.” 

Leaning forward, I meet the crown of his head. It's uncanny for Achilles, of all people, doubting his worth. “I love you, Achilles.” 

My simple words don’t reach him. “I—I know, just..the possibility is there. If you did find another...I would be broken of course, but the tiny, tiniest—” he showed me the size with his fingertips “—part of my brain would be happy for you.” His last few words are rushed and quiet. Here, with me, he is not Aristos Achaion. He is not half mortal, half god. He is simply the product of a fractured love like ours, which turns him into someone resembling more of me. Scared of their worth. 

My hands travel from his waist to his hair, running through the locks and calming him down to prevent any oncoming tears. I shift to his level and then begin to speak.

“Achilles Pelides, our reincarnation wasn't created for our break up, and it wasn't made for our demise. It was made for our second chance to love stronger.”

At first he toils, unmoving, with his recent feelings still raw and open. But then his lips find mine and they press and press and press until every part of it can be imprinted in our brains. He tastes sweet, the kind just sweet enough to leave you begging for more. I inhale a good portion of his scent, masked with a thin layer of the cold slight breeze. 

Our bodies intertwine, limb on limb as mouth on mouth. Memories of our past selves guide us and we rekindle those flames again and make stronger memories, maybe even new ones. Gentleness is written across Achilles’ face, imprinted on his fingertips, and I'm so happy they chose me. I caress him in the same way, hoping my actions can speak instead of my words. Every glide that collides with his back or chest I'm speaking It's alright. We're alright. I love you.

This time the passionate movements in my dancing fingers and arms and legs reach far enough to caress and comfort him, and in return he mimics my actions. Achilles’ hand travels up the back of my neck, finds its way to the tuft of hair that refuses to sit right, and slowly slides down until his olive hand reaches my collarbone.

Warmth exerts itself from him to me, and I sigh contently. Achilles does the same. At first when he lifts his hand from my chest I squeak out a whine. But I’m reminded it's Achilles, and the likelihood of us leaving each others sides’ is slimmer than me being straight. Quickly, his arms wrap themselves around me and pull even closer. 

After our emotional ride of feeling and gliding and touching and loving, most of all, we rest connected to each other. I glance at the digital clock bumped slightly with carelessness. It reads 3:47. 

I sigh with a mixture of content and dread. Achilles buries his face in my chest, just barely stirred.

Time is a fucking hoax to prevent me from spending time with my boyfriend, I finally rest my case on. If I remember I'll discuss the idea with Achilles. If I don't, then it'll be another thought lost. I don't think I'll mind.

Does anything really, truly matter more than the idiotic pile of muscles in my arms? 

Didn't think so.

**Author's Note:**

> hello dear reader!! hopefully you enjoyed this fic or else the 1 AM version of me pumping out this fic two days ago will be very upset. i have noticed the slight writing change in the middle of this fic, but i cant be fuckin bothered to fix it. hey, if a CERTAIN ASIAN GIRL WITH SHORT HAIR is reading this, just comment (please) your thoughts~~~ i most likely wont be posting this to wattpad.


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